


A Friend Of...

by obsidian_GSD



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Back at it again with another angst fic, Character Death, Mentions of Blood, Post Series, Whump, no beta we die like men, post netflix series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:53:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24148483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obsidian_GSD/pseuds/obsidian_GSD
Summary: Geralt is given a letter one night shortly after dropping Ciri off at the Temple. The contents have him racing away as quickly as he can to reach the side of a man he hasn't seen in years.Not since an incident on a mountain left their friendship broken. Is it too late to fix it, or will Geralt be given a second chance?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 181





	A Friend Of...

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of fused Netflix Geralt with book Geralt. Takes place after the series and after official book one. 
> 
> First fic for this fandom, so I had to make it agnsty as possible. Only a little sorry about that. Come yell at me in the comments later if you want!

Geralt hunkers down as far as he can in the corner seat of the booth he has found himself parked at. He’s just finished dropping off Ciri at the Melitele Temple and now he’s spending his time drinking from the tankard in front off him. Well, as long as someone comes over and refills it for him occasionally. 

He’s doing his best to hide, to not draw attention to himself. When he walked in, everyone made it clear just how welcome he was, and Geralt just doesn’t have it in him right now. He hopes that as long as he stays quiet in the shadows, everyone will just leave him be.

The ale grows warm in the summer heat and Geralt sighs, knowing trying to get another refill will take forever. While he isn’t planning on getting drunk, per say, it would be nice to drink enough to not worry about Ciri. He hasn’t known her long at all, not compared to other people in his life, yet he can’t seem to keep himself from caring about her. There’s only been a handful of people he’s cared about like this in his many years and he’s always managed to screw every single one of those relationships up. 

As he takes another sip of too warm ale, one of those faces swims in front of him and Geralt isn’t prepared for the pang of heartache that reverberates through him. Gathering himself as best as he can while still stuffed in the booth, he pushes aside that face as much as he can. He knows it won’t do him any good to have them on his mind. Especially not tonight. 

The village starts to darken outside the windows next to him and Geralt knows the time to move on is coming soon. He doesn’t have a room tonight and while he would love to give Roach a place to stay for the night after so many days on the road, continuing on is the best option for him right now. He takes only a moment to pay his tab, ignoring the grateful look that passes over the tender’s face, before he slips out of the door. 

Geralt just barely makes it back to Roach when he senses someone sneaking up behind him. “You might as well speak up,” he grumbles as he rubs Roach’s neck. “She would have warned me you were coming eventually.”

The steps pause behind him before continuing again. After another moment, someone finally pokes their head around the corner into the light. Geralt stares down the young boy, not knowing exactly how to react to them. He doesn’t smell any sort of animosity coming from them, just a tinge of fear. The smell of fear only grows stronger as the boy moves closer and Geralt sighs. 

“I won’t harm you,” he mumbles, turning back to Roach as he tightens her girth. “Whatever you are here for, get it over with quickly. I have places to be.” He doesn’t, not really, but he feels like he has to say something to get this interaction to move more quickly or it will take all night at this point. 

“I...uh,” the boy finally starts, fidgeting in place. “I have a m-message for the White W-wolf.”

Geralt waits, stretching his patience out as far as he can. Living with Ciri has taught him to have more of it, but times like this, he finds it stills runs thin. “Well?” he asks when he can’t stand it any longer. 

“R-right!” the boy exclaims with a small jump. “I have a r-request for you to travel to t-this village!”

A piece of paper is handed over by a shaky hand and Geralt opens it, scanning the brief message within quickly. “Seems like a far way for a boy your age to travel along,” he mutters, continuing to avert his eyes.

“It’s g-gone through s-several hands,” the boy replies and Geralt has to suppress a groan. There’s no reason to berate this kid over how dangerous that is, especially if he was just hired by someone else in order to pass this scrap along. 

Reaching into his coin purse, the Witcher removes a few and tosses them over to the kid. “Here, for your troubles,” he says quietly and pats Roach when she huffs as the boy runs off. 

“Sorry, girl,” Geralt grunts out as he climbs into the saddle. “Looks like we are in for a long night.” Village name and sender etched into his brain, Geralt steers Roach to the east as he heads out of town, using the light from the half moon to help him navigate. If they ride through the night, they should make it to the new village sometime after dawn, even if Geralt would rather get some sleep. 

“Must be important, if they’ve gone through all this trouble to send for me,” Geralt explains to Roach. “Especially if they’re using the White Wolf and not just calling me an abomination.”

Roach only tosses her head a couple of times in reply, breath fogging in front of her muzzle as she trots. Geralt takes her cue and falls back into silence as he steers the chestnut along the path next to the main road. No reason to call trouble to himself tonight. 

The ride goes fast and quiet, something Geralt is finding he has to get used to once again. After so many years of being followed by one person or another, being able to travel in silence once again is something Geralt doesn’t quite know how to handle any longer. He does his best to not dwell on it as he rides and pushes aside the faces that come to mind as the night drags on. 

When he comes across a stream, he stops Roach and gives her a chance to get a drink. Leaning against a tree near her, he pulls the letter from his pocket and reads it over once again, realizing he only really paid attention to the name of the village when he read it the first time. Usually when he gets letters like these delivered, it’s just someone asking him to take on another job, needing another monster hunted down, offering him enough crowns to last him a few days or longer if he stretches it out. 

He’s expecting the same from this letter, not really knowing what else anyone would need him for, but as he scans the words in front of him, he only grows more confused. Once the words in front of him sink in though, Geralt clambers back on top of Roach and steers her back to the road, pushing her faster than he has all night. 

The sun is just barely peaking over the ridge when the village starts to show through the trees. The Witcher doesn’t slow his horse down as he thunders closer to the houses, barreling past them once he reaches the first few. Heads poke out of doors behind him, but he ignores them as he continues to push Roach, knowing she is reaching her limits. Once he passes the inn, the sign above it just barely catching his attention, he finally sits back in his seat and brings Roach to a halt.

A child runs up to him, reaching for the reins as he jumps off Roach and he only hesitates handing them over for a moment before he notices the small area next to the house. He gives the child a look, one he knows conveys all he needs it to without scaring the child too badly, before he finally hands the reins over, giving his horse a pat as she walks past. 

“Good Witcher!” a voice calls to Geralt from the door of the house next to the inn. “Please, in here, quickly!”

“Where is he?” Geralt asks, hoping the panic he feels has stayed out of his words. “What happened?”

The man in front of Geralt rubs his hands together nervously in front of him and Geralt does his best to calm himself, not wanting to scare the man any further. “He showed up one day, clothes torn and dirty,” the man starts to explain. “It seems he was trying to reach the inn, at least that’s what we think. He collapsed in the road before he made it very far into the village. My daughter found him and came to get me; he’s been here ever since.”

Geralt has to take a deep breath as he listens, fighting off the impulse to search every room until... “Has he said anything?” he asks as he slings his sword off of his shoulder, leaning it against the door. The look of relief that washes over the man in front of him is instant and Geralt has to hold in a sigh as he starts peeling off his armor next. 

“He’s only woken a few times, but never for long,” a woman says as she comes around the corner and eyes Geralt. “We only knew to look for you because of his reputation... and the fact that he calls for you constantly.”

At this, Geralt freezes, the last pieces of his armor falling from his hand. “...he what..?”

“He doesn’t say much,” she continues, eyeballing the pile of armor that now clutters her entrance way. “But he’s asked for you more times than we can count in the few days he’s been here.”

“Days?” Geralt repeats and he can feel somethingg building in his chest now. “He’s been here days?”

“Yes, and before you continue that thought,” the dark haired woman interrupts as she stares him down. “We’ve done everything we can to help him, including spending nearly all of our saved coin on a healer that did what he could to make him comfortable. We sent for you as fast as possible as well, but you are a hard man to find, Witcher.”

Geralt steels himself, knowing what comes next at this point. “Please,” he whispers finally, taking the edge out of his words. “May I see him?” 

He and the woman stare at each other for a moment before she finally nods, turning and leading him through the small area that must double as a kitchen. “We set him up out here,” she says as she continues to lead Geralt out the back door. “There was no way we would have been able to get him up in the raft. We’re lucky to have an outbuilding here, so turned it into a room long ago, when my son still lived with us.”

Geralt follows in silence, doing what he can to prepare himself for whatever he might be about to see. When they reach the door to the building, the lady stops, her back still to Geralt. “We tried,” she whispers so softly, Geralt wonders if someone with normal hearing would have even been able to catch her words. “I just wish we could have done more.”

Her words hit Geralt like a punch to his chest and as the door finally swings open, he hears his heart thunder faster than he can remember it ever doing it before. The stench of sickness smacks him like a rogue wave as soon as he steps inside and Geralt has to brace himself before he continues. 

A lamp turned down low gives the area just enough light for a human to be able to see without disturbing the small shape laying on a pallet next to it. Geralt takes another hesitant step closer, his ears picking up the sound of labored breathing and a heart that beats weakly. 

“I’ll leave you be,” the woman says as she turns away, but her words barely even reach the Witcher as he drops to his knees next to the bed. 

His arms hang by his side as his eyes travel over the gaunt face in front of him. Part of him wants to think it’s just the lighting, that the face that used to be so soft and full of joy doesn’t actually look like this. He knows that isn’t the truth, knows that he’s being irrational, yet he can’t help but continue to hope that as he takes in more of the small frame in front of him. 

Light travels across the room through the small window behind Geralt as the sun rises further. The woman comes back when the patches of light stretch almost to the bed, a small bowl of water and a fresh compress in her hands. She works in silence around Geralt, taking away the old compress and replacing it with hardly a glance at the Witcher. When she goes to leave, he senses her stop, as if she wants to say something, but she only slips back outside without a word. 

Geralt finds himself sitting and watching the man in front of him for most of the day. He’s aware of when the woman comes back again and finds himself keeping track of time though her visits, even though he could do the same based off of the sunlight that still shines through the small window. A plate of food is placed next to him at some point and he turns his head to see a child racing out of the door, hair whipping behind her as she races from him. Even when his stomach growls from the smell wafting from the plate, Geralt can’t bring himself to pick anything from it. 

Just when he starts to think that there’s no hope, that he will never again get to hear that tender voice again, a soft groan reaches his ears, making his heart race once more. “....alt...” 

“I-” Geralt tries to say, but his words only die off as lips continue to move. 

“Ger...alt...”

The Witcher feels his arm move before he even thinks about what he is doing and watches as it stretches out in front of him towards the bed. Within moments, he’s grabbed the pale hand in front of him, wrapping his rough one over the slim, calloused digits. “I’m... I’m here,” he finally manages to squeeze out, voice thick. 

As he sits, he finds he can only watch as eyelids finally start to flutter open and soft hazel eyes appear. They don’t find him immediately, even ask his name continues to fall brokenly from cracked lips, but Geralt can’t bring himself to help them. His breath catches in his throat as he watches them flit around, a glazed look taking over the usual brightness he is so used to seeing in them. 

When they do finally land on him, Geralt watches as they widen ever so slightly. “Ger...alt...” a broken voice mumbles. “Are you... really here...?”

Whatever was left unbroken in the Witcher breaks instantly at those words; he can feel the cracks appearing and knows there will never be a way for him to put it back together. “I’m here, Jaskier,” he whispers, the name falling from his lips for the first time in years. “I’m really here.”

The bard only stares at him and Geralt starts to worry he’s too late, that Jaskier is too far gone to really understand what’s going on around him. Just as he starts to repeat himself, the hand in his grasp twitches and he releases his grip enough for it to slip out. 

Tearing his eyes away from the ones in front of him, Geralt looks down to see that hand trying desperately to reach for him. He gives it a moment, knowing instantly what this means for Jaskier, before he finally helps guide the shaky appendage closer. The moment those calloused fingers touch his face, Geralt’s eyes close and he leans into their touch, soaking it up as much as he can in this moment. 

“It really is....” that voice continues again and Geralt’s eyes fly open once more. “You’re really...”

“I’m really here, Jaskier,” he mumbles, doing his best to mask the pain that runs through him. It won’t help the bard right now. “I came as soon as I knew.”

Jaskier’s fingers dance over Geralt’s face. “I can’t believe... you actually-” he starts, but before he can finish the thought, a harsh cough starts to wrack his frame and Geralt can only watch, not knowing if there’s any way for him to really help. 

Pulling his hand away from Jaskier’s, Geralt reaches for him as the coughs continue. He does the only thing he can think of and helps Jaskier to sit up, doing his best to hold him up. He rubs circles against the other’s back as he tries to patiently wait out the fit. 

It doesn’t last much longer after Jaskier is sitting up and Geralt finds himself breathing easier once the bard starts to calm down. Remembering the plate of food that was left for him, Geralt turns towards it and finds a container of water on it as well. He grabs it and tentatively holds it out for Jaskier. “Small sips,” he instructs and watches for any signs of more coughing. 

“Many thanks,” Jaskier whispers as he lays back down again, Geralt gently guiding him. “Those have been... persistent...”

Geralt flashes the smaller man a pained smile. “Jaskier...” he starts. “What happened after...”

“The mountain..?” Jaskier fills in when Geralt can’t finish. The Witcher only ducks his head, memories of that day doing their best to bring up as much shame as they can in a short amount of time. It wasn’t one of his better moments in life and he has spent many nights regretting the words that left him that day. 

“You...” he starts again, but instantly finds himself unable to finish, not having the words he wants to use. 

“Disappeared?” Jaskier whispers and Geralt is reminded just how easily the bard has always been able to read him. “Of course I did...”

Jaskier’s eyes get a far away look to them and Geralt knows he is also thinking back to that day. “Jaskier, I-”

“No,” the bard interrupts, but there is no malice behind the word. “Please, don’t... don’t do that. It was a long... time ago now. All that matters is you’re here...”

As the words leave Jaskier’s lips, Geralt watches as they stretch into a very strained, small smile. No longer fighting himself, Geralt reaches out and cradles Jaskier’s face in one hand, running his thumb carefully over a soft cheek. “Please, Jaskier. What happened?” he repeats finally. 

That smile slips from Jaskier’s face and Geralt knows that whatever story he’s about to hear is going to be a painful one. Shifting his weight, he moves closer to the pallet and continues to hold the other’s face. “I went back... to Oxenfurt after...” Jaskier starts haltingly. “They always offer positions for me. Whether it’s to teach or just to... exist, really. It’s home, whenever I need it to be...”

Geralt waits as the words trail off, knowing that Jaskier has to tell the story at whatever pace he needs to. He starts to pull his hand away from his face, but is stopped by a hand wrapping around his arm, squeezing gently. A look passes between the two of them, one Geralt can see contains more than he can comprehend right now. Just when he’s about to say something, Jaskier takes a deep breath and continues his story. 

“I stayed there for quite sometime,” Jaskier says as his eyes trail off. “It was nice... at first. I got a lot done... saw a lot of people...”

“Compose any new songs?” Geralt asks as jokingly as he can manage when Jaskier pauses again.

Those eyes come back to him and another smile graces Jaskier’s face. “A few, yes... Finished the one I was working on on the mountain too...”

Geralt feels his own face soften and he finds he can’t tear his eyes away from the hazel ones in front of him. The memory of that day will always be painful for him and he hopes he’ll never have to hear the song it birthed, but the look his bard gives him makes up for it all. 

“I... I got bored, Geralt...” The smile slips once again from Jaskier’s face and a pained, heavy look replaces it. Geralt feels something in his chest ache as deeply as a stab wound and he does everything he can to mask his features as Jaskier continues. “I missed... everything, really. The road, the monsters... The excitement... I... I missed it all. So I left. Went out on my own...”

The words start to come further apart and Geralt thinks back to the lady’s words from earlier, about Jaskier never staying awake for long. “You need sleep,” he murmurs when Jaskier doesn’t continue his story. Those hazel eyes close with a small nod and Geralt holds back a sigh. He’ll never be able to admit how terrified he really is of those eyes never opening again. 

“I need sleep...” Jaskier whispers back. 

Geralt starts to pull his hand away once more, already thinking of where he can take up watch in the small space they are in, but he’s stopped once again by a squeeze on his arm. “Stay...” is all Jaskier mumbles and Geralt watches him drift off. 

His body makes the decision before his mind can really comprehend what he’s doing; one second he’s kneeling on the floor, the next, he is climbing onto the pallet, stuffing himself behind Jaskier on the small pallet. Jaskier stirs as he pull him closer, arranging the tired man so his head lands on his broad chest. Geralt wraps an arm around the slender frame, thinner than he remembers it being, and settles back against the wall. 

Soon, slow and steady breathing reaches Geralt’s ears and he knows that he’s stuck in this position for the long haul. Night arrives soon after, casting moonlit shadows through the small windows. Candle light bounces towards the door which opens to reveal the woman once again, who only glances briefly at the sight before her. Without a word, she goes through the motions of replacing Jaskier’s bowl of water for his compress and eyeballs the plate still full of food where it was left for Geralt. 

“My apologies,” Geralt murmurs and the woman only huffs before reaching down to pick up the plate. With a look at the Witcher, she leaves it on the bed within his reach before turning to walk out of the shed once more, the candle still burning away on the crate next to the pallet. 

Geralt feels the edges of sleep grab at him and after not sleeping the night before, he has a harder time fighting it off this night. The sounds of Jaskier’s even breathing and the warmth of the body pressed against his only furthers the pull of sleep, yet Geralt continues trying his best to fight it off. When his eyes finally do close, he finds he doesn’t have to worry about missing anything; every twitch from Jaskier has Geralt on edge, keeping deep sleep far away from him. Resting at this point, will be enough for him, so he settles in even further. 

The night passes by silently and Geralt finds himself hoping that Jaskier will sleep until morning. He uses the time to go over the parts of the story he has already heard, forcing himself to not dwell too long on the memories of the dragon hunt. It won’t do him any good, not right now at least, to relive that period in his life again. He’s changed since, learned to be different, to hopefully be better than he was back then. 

It’s still a few hours away from dawn when Jaskier starts to stir, mumbling under his breath once again. “...Geralt...”

“I’m here, Jaskier...” the Witched responds without thinking. At the sound of his own words, he tightens the arm that’s still wrapped around Jaskier. 

“Please....” Jaskier continues, still mostly asleep. “I should have.. never....”

The words become nonsensical and Geralt wonders if Jaskier is falling back asleep. As he waits, a faint whining sound reaches his ears and he looks down to see Jaskier’s face contorted in pain. “Wake up,” he murmurs, trying to pull Jaskier away from whatever nightmare is plaguing him. 

When the shivers start, Geralt realizes that Jaskier is getting worse. The fear starts to set in as he slowly starts to understand that this is worse than he first thought it was. He starts to slide out from under Jaskier, intent on finding someone that can help him summon a better mage, when Jaskier stirs again and he stops. 

“Don’t... don’t go...” the bard mumbles, weakly grabbing a handful of Geralt’s tunic. 

“I need to get you help,” Geralt replies and he winches at the desperation creeping into his words. “There has to be someone that can heal you.”

Even as he talks, Jaskier shakes his head minutely. “No... I... I brought this on m-myself...”

Geralt looks down at Jaskier, wishing he could see those eyes. “What are you talking about,” he deadpans. 

“I went... looking for you...” Jaskier replies after a moment. Geralt’s heart skips a beat and he knows that he’s about to hear more of the story. “I hated you... for a short time... I blamed you f-for so much and... I w-wanted to find you. Then, I j-just missed you... Everywhere I w-went... I was reminded of you...”

A pause. “What did you find, Jaskier,” Geralt whispers, not wanting to know the answer. 

“M-more like,” Jaskier answers, stopping to let out a long sigh. “More like who f-found me...”

Geralt doesn’t miss the shiver that’s different than the others still coursing through his bard; it’s full of fear and Geralt has to work to suppress the emotions that threaten to raise their head within him. “Jaskier...” he starts, keeping everything out of his words. 

“T-they knew...” 

The world slows around them and everything in Geralt hones in on Jaskier and Jaskier alone. 

“They thought... They t-thought they c-could use me to g-get to you...”

He has to force himself to relax, force himself to breathe, force himself to not run out of that shed right then and there and-

A coughing fit starts again, harder than the last time, and Geralt finds himself distracted as he helps Jaskier sit up. He rubs his hand over the bard’s back again, doing what he can to ease Jaskier’s pain. He does his best to not think about the red flecks splattering over pale hands; he only reaches for the empty bowl next to the bed, giving Jaskier something to cough into. 

“Thanks...” Jaskier whispers when the coughs finally subside and Geralt moves the bowl, paying no attention to the amount of red filling it. Tries to, anyways. “I don’t know who they were... They never g-gave me the chance to find out...” 

Geralt finds himself listening to the story as best as he can. He absorbs as much detail about the group of men as possible. Reacts as little as he can as Jaskier starts to describe the ordeals he faced. Keeps himself from gripping too tightly to shaking limbs when memories of torture are brought forth. Reminds himself over and over that running off to hunt these men down right now will solve nothing. 

When the tears start, Geralt only pulls Jaskier even closer somehow, doing whatever he can to sooth his bard as his tunic is slowly soaked. It takes a long time for them to stop and when they do, Geralt almost expects Jaskier to be asleep once more. He stays silent as he listens to his bard’s heavy breathing, as the sun just starts to creep into the shed. 

Jaskier shifts under his arm and Geralt continues to listen as he clears his throat, softly continuing his story once again: “I don’t know what made them finally let me go... One day I was held captive and the next, I was being set free... I somehow managed to stumble here and apparently collapsed at the edge of town. After that... well, I’m sure you can put it together...” 

Geralt waits, as patiently as possible, to see if this is truly the end of the story. When Jaskier shifts again, but says nothing more, he finally voices the one thing that hasn’t been answered. “Why can’t you be healed?” 

The bard stiffens before letting out a long sigh. “They did... something to me...” he whispers after a long stretch. “Brought someone in and.... They t-took something from me... I d-don’t really remember any of it, b-but...”

A pause.

“Geralt..?”

“Yes?”

“I’m getting worse, aren’t I?”

Another pause.

“Ah...”

Damned truth telling moral. 

“I’ll find someone that can-”

“Who, Yennefer? Someone else that has never really c-cared for me?” Jaskier tries to joke, but Geralt can hear the fear in his words. “I know I’m a l-lost cause... T-this was all I w-wanted...”

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispers as he moves his arm from around the bard’s shoulders so he can run his fingers through soft hair. He isn’t even aware he’s doing it until Jaskier lets out a chuckle. 

“H-have to be d-dying for you to finally... admit-” Jaskier says as a cough starts to build in his chest. His breathing comes harder and Geralt can’t ignore the wet wheezing that follows even gasps of air. “S-should have tried... this y-years ago..”

Another sad chuckle leaves Jaskier and Geralt finds he can’t stop himself now; his fingers card through Jaskier’s hair slowly, brushing it away from a feverish forehead as his other hand reaches over to rest on a slender hip. “Jaskier, I....”

“P-please, Geralt..” Jaskier manages to lift his head just enough to catch cat eyes, cutting off whatever thought was trying to make it’s way out of the Witcher. “I’ll be ok... I’m not scared, n-not anymore.”

Geralt can hear just how painful each breath is, can feel just how hard Jaskier is trying to even get his words out at this point. He knows... Knows it’s too late to do anything and yet, there’s still a part of him roaring for him to get up, to go get help, to do anything. 

Jaskier’s head slumps back down and he nuzzles against Geralt’s chest. “You’re here n-now...”

The shakes come harder, the heavy, wet breathing becomes more difficult. 

“I’ve n-never been scared of... d-dying... N-not since...”

A wet cough. Enhanced hearing picking up the slowing heart beats. 

“I knew... that when this d-day came, it would b-be with you... B-by my side...”

A hand grips his tunic again, weaker than before. Weaker than Jaskier has ever been. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispers, the name broken on his lips. 

“We h-had some great t-times...”

He wishes he could block the sounds out, could ignore how hard it really is for Jaskier to keep going. Wishes he could let him know...

“I... I only w-wish...”

A pained breath.

Another...

“...Ger... alt...”

A shudder runs through the bard and Geralt holds him tighter as he listens. When one last breath, one last sigh leaves the smaller man, Geralt doesn’t move. He only continues to card his fingers through silken strands as the sun finally reaches the bed. 

He doesn’t know how long he stays there. Stops paying attention to time in general after that. It’s only when the sound of the door opening once more reaches him, breaking through to his mind, that Geralt finally shifts. He can’t bring himself to look down, doesn’t dare to look at the face that’s followed him for so long now. Instead, he carefully wraps his bard in the worn blanket from the bed, pulls off a pouch from his belt, and leaves with Jaskier in his arms without another word to the family. 

They say that the smoke could be seen for miles. That howls could be heard from that woods later that night. That a new grave could be found at the base of the oldest tree in the region. 

They also say that the white haired Witcher now rides with a lute attached to the saddle of his horse. It never moves from its place, is never touched by any, especially not by the Witcher. It is also said that the tales of his deeds are never once sung of again. Not in any tavern, brothel, or pub in all of the lands. 

On the day he arrives at the southern coast, none watch as he finally removes the lute from his saddle, placing it next to him in the sand as he watches the sun rise over the waves. Only one song plays in his head as he thinks that maybe, he’s finally lived for too long.


End file.
